Paint Can and Brush

February 2019

You rip up the old beige carpet, matted down with fifty years of footsteps. Dust whirls up: bantam bits of grandparents and babies and pets and dinosaurs and rocks from space. The history of the universe and yesterday’s Chihuahua dandruff are equal here, spinning gold in the light from the window.... read the rest at TIMBER

Morning Fog

October 2018

The morning smells like freshly-baked bread / and low-tide sea creatures. Someone whistles / for their dog. Someone asks for their coffee to go. / Someone picks out a Sam Cooke song on the guitar. / We listen to tourists’ footsteps on the boardwalk above / and cup our terrible song in fingers stained with seaweed / and nicotine... read the rest at Sweet Tree Review

Sunrise over the Wheat Field

October 2018

You are Mary and I am Laura / and Jack is our pet tornado / churning across the berm. / He twists up grass and a / murmuration of starlings. / He twists up a swarm of locusts.... read the rest at Menacing Hedge

Solar Eclipse

July 2018

88% is a lot, nearly the whole / thing. The black moon sliding / over the sun like a manhole / cover, a heavy mineral disc left / ajar. But shadow-chasers say / totality makes all the the rest at Pittsburgh Poetry Review

Rolling Dough

Today, I gathered

the strawberries that

grew wild after you 

left. Snipped the runners

running from their beds,

flicked baby slugs from 
the underbellies

of serrated leaves,

deposed red berries 
from their sprouted crowns....

Cleaning Equipment

When winter gives way to wet,
our breath more water than air,
you think of flowers:

snowdrops and cherry blossoms,
lilacs pearled in purple-beaded bundles,

erroneous crocuses....


He’s the original Adam, cable-knit sweater pulled down

over his missing rib. He’s thinking about ending things

with Eve—not because he doesn’t love her, I mean God,

look at their history—but because he can’t remember...

My pagan hands, _capable enough_for this


I begin with the smallest ornaments, start at the top
and work my way down, lift the fine filament hooks
from every browning branch. The tree’s fragrance rises
at each violation, its pine scent strong and tangible.
It stretches like an animal above my head....

Dr. Suess_Sabine.jpg


The little girls watch Peter Pan in the living room, bare 
toes curled against the arm of the overstuffed 
chair they share under a zebra-striped blanket. 

An animated Captain Hook shoots 
one of his mates in the middle of a song.
Smee genuflects in his chubby humble way....

Bar Exterior

It starts with the hemistich hitch in her step.

A henchwoman’s tell, regret stopping up the gait


with sediment. This moon’s stepdaughter can’t keep

swindling tarot cards and sneaking roofies


into her own whiskey-gingers...


The heroes have autographed the table again
with their glasses, rings of condensation
in looped cursive circles that interrupt

each other’s epics. We take turns
riding to the shoreline
to measure the water’s rise....


If it weren’t for the air frothed thick with lilacs
it would feel like August. The lawn under my bare feet
still warm from the sun, even beneath the moon’s round face.
It’s nearly one a.m., late for this morning girl,
but I couldn’t sleep with the laundry out and rain coming....

 my flea-sized.jpg

The hollows of what would have been

my children pock the mud in mucky swallows—

not even the clamor of shattered shell

or broken bones, just the gulping absences

sunk among reeds and sweet-grass....

Forest Path


Someone is whistling in the dark alleys

left over from winter. The soggy ditch where green

hasn’t reached yet, or the thicket growing over

the gutter. A chickadee, maybe, eyes

buried in the shadow of his black fedora...



They ask what’s the point—a life cycle

bookended by shit, all for a vacation inside

your black and shiny body.


But hasn’t everyone wanted to be

someone else for a while? Smudged

the line between enchanted and enchained?

From “Carving” by Kami Westhoff__Trees a


In your branches cathedrals gather,
twist in fine green tendrils. My clinging
runners curl ahead to scatter
in your bones. It feels holy,
doesn’t it? Let me froth your marrow,
let me lather bells across your body,
let me in. Lovers should be close....